


Don't Get Too Excited

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, I really love SHIELD agents, Naked Male Clothed Female, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fic, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint falls through the ice into a reservoir while leaving a mission in a hurry. Natasha would just hate for him to die of hypothermia on her watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Get Too Excited

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "hypothermia or heat stroke" from the [avengers_tables](http://avengers-tables.livejournal.com/) Hurt/Comfort - Injury table. I went with hypothermia and was shameless about it.
> 
> Kindly looked over by [Nocturnal08](http://nocturnal08.livejournal.com).

A year ago, Natasha would have kept Clint Barton alive because doing otherwise would most likely have resulted in her own imminent termination. The stakes are different now, and she’s not sure whether or not Barton has changed, but she has, and the protocol along with her.

“We’ve got to get you out of these clothes,” she says matter-of-factly. She’s keeping her voice calm, deliberately light, as Barton shudders violently, fingers grappling the neck of his pullover but failing to take hold. It’s like watching a waterlogged insect drown.

“It’s alright, Barton, let me,” she interrupts, impatient with his fumbling, his chattering, his numbness. “And the next time, try not to fall through the ice.”

She pulls the jacket off easily enough, and his shirt and undershirt follow. He hasn’t been hit - she didn’t think he had, but it’s a relief to be sure - and she pulls a fleece blanket out of her pack. It’s not as thick as she would like, but it’s what they have. That, a Mylar sleeping bag, and the heat of their own bodies. She pushes that thought aside for the moment, although she knows she’ll be coming back to it.

“Put this over your shoulders,” she directs. “Your head, too. Dry your hair.” It’s a good thing his hair is cropped close. A good thing she wasn’t the one to nearly get shot and wind up in the reservoir.

“For God’s sake, stop shivering,” Natasha adds for good measure as Barton complies shakily. She knows it’s harsh, and impossible to boot, but those qualms never seem to apply when Barton takes charge, and she’d much rather he got over this as quickly as possible.

“Yes, ma’am,” Barton returns, and it takes him a moment to get the words through his teeth, but it’s the first sound he’s made since he hit the ice, and it relieves her.

“You Americans are so sheltered,” she says, and she bends down to remove his pants. They’re thick, lined material, and the weight and the pressure they’re putting on him now must be enormous. “Don’t get too excited, Barton,” she adds. Because that’s the last thing either one of them needs.

Barton is nodding his head, still wrapped up in the gray fleece, and he kicks his shoes off, laboriously working them at the heels. She leaves him to deal with his briefs and begins setting up her collapsible elevated tent. It’s built for one - Barton would have his own if he had managed to hold on to his pack - but the extra proximity can’t hurt them, and he needs a place to sit, something to break the icy winds. She thinks it might be designed to hold under three hundred pounds, but the two of them will manage, at least until the retrieval team arrives.

They will arrive, too, for Barton’s sake if not hers. She hopes it’s sooner than later, but realistically, they’re fairly far from the nearest base.

“Good thing you - you held on to - the pack,” Barton says behind her as she finishes zipping the top of the tent. He’s still stumbling over his words, but she knows he’s coming back to himself a little, standing wrapped in the blanket and nothing else.

“I told you to dry your hair, idiot,” Natasha says. “Go on, get inside.”

Barton nods and pulls himself jerkily into the tent. It’s a good thing they’re both compact people, and Natasha crawls in beside and nearly on top of him, shielding him from the mesh flap over the opening.

“Remember, don’t get too excited,” she says, when she sees him start to open his mouth. “This is purely for survival. And get inside the sleeping bag.”

“It’s not the worst - climate we’ve been in,” Barton tells her, hissing a little as she digs her elbow into him retrieving the sleeping bag.

“Really? Name one worse place,” Natasha dares him, smirking a little.

“Okay. This sleeping bag. It’s as ugly as - ” Barton starts, but stop hastily at the look on her face. “I’m getting in, okay?”

“You’d better be,” she tells him, and she doesn’t take her eyes away until he’s got the bag up to his neck. It swallows him - there’s enough room for the both of them if it came to that - and it’s every bit as ugly as he claims. It doesn’t matter.

Barton’s breathing is starting to even out, his sense of humor is returning, and she thinks she might be able to relax until the medevac touches down in an hour or so. She lies on her back next to him, and it’s snug, but not unpleasant. “So name one place we’ve been more miserable than here,” she says. It takes a moment, then two, and she wonders whether Barton has managed to fall asleep inside the reflective bag, whether she needs to shake him awake and demand he tell her more stories about unfortunate games of strip poker.

“I’d rather freeze to death than melt. So Yemen, for starters,” he says finally, turning to face her. His voice is clearer than it had been, and his eyes seem focused, but she rolls over and examines him in sudden concern.

“We were never in Yemen,” she tells him. They haven’t been. New Orleans, Acapulco, Bratislava, Madrid. A handful of smaller-scale missions that she knows were designed to test her. Budapest, to go back to the beginning. They’ve never been anywhere near Yemen, and he should know it.

“Aden,” he tells her. “June of 2007. Thought I was going to die of heat stroke.” He’s still staring at her intently, the both of them propped on their elbows, and Natasha can see the memory pass through his eyes.

She goes very, very still. “Aden,” she repeats. “2007.” A lifetime ago. “You were following me as far back as all that?” Her voice is calm, but it’s not a voice that sounds like her, and she knows Barton will know that.

“You? God, no. I was there about a player in the secession movement,” Barton tells her. His speech is almost back to normal now, and she’s fairly confident they’ve avoided hypothermia. It’s good to keep him talking though, to keep an eye on him. “We called him Long John Silver. It was… a nonproliferation sort of thing. I was doing reconnaissance, the usual, until things didn’t go according to plan.”

“The weapons deal was a hoax, and the mark was dead,” Natasha supplies. Because she knows this story, albeit from a different perspective entirely. All these years, and she’d had no idea there was any SHIELD involvement.

“It took us three days to go over all the leads,” Barton says. All she can see is his face, guileless, wrapped up in the memory. He’s just the same as he ever was. “After we figured it out - that’s when we started keeping tabs on you. But it was strange to think that the little girl from the internet cafe was the Black Widow.”

Natasha scoffs softly. The internet cafe. “Did you feel sorry for me, before you knew?” she asks. She shifts ever so slightly, moves her hand to rest on what she can only assume is his shoulder. Contact heat.

She isn’t sure why she’s letting him talk about Yemen, of all things. About the person she used to be, a person they have largely been content to ignore. By rights she should be angry, but she’s not. She knew they were tailing her for the better part of a year, and it had to start somewhere. In a way, it’s almost cute, the way Barton tells it.

“I almost broke protocol and went in early to rescue you,” Barton tells her wryly, and damn him, she can believe it. It shouldn’t be endearing, but it is. He’s the most human operative she’s ever likely to meet.

“But Long John Silver would have sailed away scot-free,” she clarifies, knowing that’s what stopped him.

“It’s hard to be a knight in shining armor,” Barton agrees. Natasha pats his arm comfortingly.

“But you’ll settle for a shining sleeping bag,” she says, and Barton’s laugh is harsh and surprised.

“I knew you were something else, from that mission alone,” he says. “That was the first time I didn’t get my man.”

“Yes, well,” Natasha says, her world settling comfortably back on its axis. “You were at a disadvantage, Barton. Because I always - _always_ \- get my man.”

“Don’t think I don’t know it,” he says, and then his face falls into something a little more serious, a little more speculative. “Yemen was hot, and there was no way to cool down,” he tells her. “The cafe might have been better, but the rooftop was murder.”

“Is the sleeping bag keeping you warm enough?” Natasha asks. It’s nothing but concern for her partner, who she knows is trying just as hard as she is to stay awake, to stay in control.

“What if I said no?” he asks, a familiar grin crossing his face, and she bites her lip, considering.

“Don’t get too excited,” she says finally, though she’s not sure whether she’s reminding Barton or herself. Because it _is_ cold, and she has no idea when the retrieval team will come, and she might as well.

He nods, brings the bag down over his bare shoulders, and allows her to slide in next to him. It’s a tight fit, but neither of them will say anything, any more than the retrieval team. They’re all professionals here, and the important part is getting Barton out in one piece. Everyone knows that.


End file.
